


knife in the ocean

by EmmaMae



Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: AU where the Loyalists plan fails and Corvo is executed at Coldridge, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood and Gore, Blood and Violence, Body Horror, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sexual Content, Slow Build, Trauma, Whump, established relationship Daud/Teague Martin
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-13
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-14 00:40:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29410641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmmaMae/pseuds/EmmaMae
Summary: The Loyalists failed - and they let Martin take the blame. He is branded a Heretic and cast from the Abbey. But Martin is a survivor. He will weather the storm; by any means necessary.
Relationships: Daud/Teague Martin
Comments: 12
Kudos: 31





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story will be following the major plotlines of Dishonored, the Knife of Dunwall, and the Brigmore Witches. There are a lot of adjustments for the story to fit an expanded timeline, and for it to work without Corvo, but I will be following canon reasonably closely. Tags are for the first few chapters, other themes/relationships/characters will not be tagged to avoid spoilers. If you have any questions, feel free to message me on[ Tumblr.](https://overseermartin.tumblr.com/)

_25th Day, Month of High Cold, 1837_

Daud had said nothing when a handful of Whalers pulled a mattress into his office, leaving it strewn across the rotting floorboard. He said nothing as they gathered the bandages, a bucket of water, and the last of their elixirs. And when Thomas arrived with a body slumped over his shoulder; Daud turned away.

He sat on a rooftop, watching as smoke billowed from a blaze further up the Wrenhaven. He thought of blades crossed and blood spilled; of money crossing hands, of the Empress’s bodyguard hanging in the courtyard of Coldridge Prison. A scream pulled him back to the rooftop, the scurrying of boots against floorboards. He thought of the body in Thomas’s arms; the ruined coat of an Overseer, the blood that dripped from his head, and the stench of burnt flesh. The smoke had smothered the sky now; a grey smudge hanging above him. He sighed and turned back to his office.

Thomas was doing his best; his mask had been discarded now, and his red curls clung to his head damp with sweat. Daud shrugged off his coat, pulled his sleeves up, and gently took the cloth from Thomas’s hands. He pressed it to Martin’s face, or what was left of it, and pushed any disgust or horror down. Far down. He had no time for that.

Martin was lucky to be alive. The Heretic’s Brand had seared across the left side of his face, damaging his eye beyond saving. Daud washed away as much of the blood as he could, then asked Thomas for the sharpest blade he could find. Martin was babbling now, a string of incoherent words between sobs and cries, though Daud ignored him. He was lost to the pain; he wasn’t present. He undid his belt and placed the leather between Martin’s teeth, and Martin instinctively bit down. When Thomas returned, Daud cleaned the blade with the whiskey he had been saving in the bottom drawer of his desk. And then he turned to the grim business of removing Martin’s eye. He was no surgeon; but he was a killer. His hands were steady and the blood didn’t bother him; it was the noise that got to him. The wetness of it. The muffled screams escaping Martin’s lips. And the smell.

He pressed the cloth to his socket, and it quickly became soaked with blood. Thomas passed him the bandages and Daud did his best wrap it as tightly as he could. As Daud washed his hands, Thomas removed the belt from Martin’s mouth and held an elixir to his lips. It wouldn’t help much; the best they could hope for was to numb the pain. His sobs quietened and soon he was asleep.

Daud lit a cigarette as the Whalers cleaned up, his hands still stained red. Rulfalo cleaned and bandaged the two stumps on Martin’s right hand where his fingers had once been; Thomas carefully cut the uniform from his body. His ribs had been broken, his chest was a mar of bruises and blood. With a sad sigh, Thomas wrapped his torso with tight bandages. Daud watched, numb. No one looked at him. No one said a word.

* * *

The pain was endless. Waves crashing over him, pulling him further and further into the abyss, drowning him, burning at his lungs. He was lost to it. It overcame him, filled him, became him. Martin grasped at thoughts, memories, though each vanished into the darkness as he handled them. _Heretic_ whipped past his head, _traitor_ punched him in the gut. The pain took each word from him, plucked the thoughts from his head, leaving him empty. Eventually, he decided he liked being hollow.

It burned; though the brand had long stopped burning. He clawed at his face until he was restrained by unseen hands; he writhed and begged for someone to end it. Still it burned, growing hotter still. He whimpered in his agony; admitting defeat. He slipped further down, down into the deep.

His world became a blur of purple and blue. A deep swirling bruise; a mist that never cleared. Somewhere, he thought he heard a whale singing. Salt and brine marked his lungs. Dark shapes drifted past his peripheral. A light flashed. Hushed voices shivered.

 _Interesting._ The words shaped him, touched him, as light as a cool ocean breeze.

* * *

The noise was too much. Daud couldn't think through it. The screams, the writhing, the stench. A miasma of hot, sticky, misery had surrounded the building. It smothered and suppressed and Daud couldn’t breathe. He stood on the balcony beyond his office, a half-forgotten cigarette balanced between bloodied fingers, eyes lost in the grey smudge of the Dunwall skyline.

A sudden breeze and the scent of the ocean, and Thomas appeared at his side, the blank eyes of his mask probing at Daud. “Master-“

“Make it stop.” Daud growled, his words heavy with resignation.

There was hesitation; Thomas made to step closer then stopped himself. “Daud, there’s nothi-“

“Make. It. Stop.” He repeated, a quiet fury rising within him. When Thomas didn’t respond, Daud flicked the cigarette over the railing and stormed inside.  
But it was worse inside; the smell hit him hard, a putrid mix of burnt flesh, rot, and vomit. And then there was the screaming. Martin writhed on a filthy mattress on the floor of his office, lost to the pain, curling himself into a tight ball and unwinding to toss to the other side. The bandages across his eyes had soaked through already; his blood was dark and mixed with a worrying yellowish slime.

Daud sucked in a breath through gritted teeth and retreated to his mezzanine. The old chest at the foot of his bed creaked open, rough hands tossed tattered books and journals into a bag, along with a rune and a handful of bonecharms. He packed the few things he owned and then he left

* * *

It was quiet now, the pain had retreated, though it never truly left. It slunk around him, a predator watching its prey, a testing growl travelling through him. It ached, Outsider’s eyes, it still hurt. His hand, disconnected and throbbing, pressed against a swath of damp bandages. A dry, metallic taste had long settled on his tongue. As his hand came away, wet, the scent of blood filled his head. Everything felt far away, then. Out of reach.

The pain rang through his head, a hot white pain that echoed, louder and hotter with every second. Martin could taste it. A bitter, acrid bile clinging to his throat. His mouth was thick of it. Lungs burning, chest aching, he coughed until he felt he’d turn inside out.

Something cold pressed to his lips. He spluttered and wrenched away; a hand caught his jaw and roughly tilted his head back. A wet, sticky substance dripped into his mouth, sweet with a subtle tang of acidity. It numbed; it helped.

Martin was still; though he did not dream.

Shadows passed by him in the mist; and there was a faint glow further away. He couldn’t make sense of it; everything swirled in shadows of purple and black. He tried to reach out and search the air around him but his arms were dead at his side. Instead, he listened.

It was raining, heavy drops hit against a hollow metal roof, collecting in puddles, the constant dripping weaving a tapestry of noise. At first it was difficult to hear past it, then as his mind became familiar with the tapping of water against metal or concrete, he found familiar shapes amongst them. Footsteps. Heavy boots trudging through thick mud and against concrete. A new beat Martin clung to, and he found himself counting their steps. Ten steps east, six steps west, and repeat. He pushed himself further and found the creaks of rotting timbers struggling against the weight of brick and slate, wind whistling through skeletal buildings, a hollow sound of decay. A foghorn pushed through the threads of beating rain, distant and deep.

A weary sigh pulled him from his reverie. The crinkling of paper followed by the thud of it hitting the floor in a tight ball. Martin must have moved, though his body felt foreign and sluggish, as buckled boots thumped towards him. The snapping of leather gloves being pulled off and discarded; a cold hand touched his forehead.  
He jumped at the sudden touch, a small noise escaping from his dry lips.

“Fever’s gone down, that’s good.” A voice mumbled, the breath tickling against his skin. “Need more bandages.”

Martin squirmed, pulling away from the man that leaned over him. “Wha-“

A slow exhale grounded him. “Go on.”

“What-where…” His voice was little more than a rasp, easily lost between the creaks of the buildings around him, captured between the falling of rain.

“Central Rudshore, or what’s left of it.” The voice told him. It was an unknown voice, Martin decided, soft but clear. “I brought you here; to Daud.”

Daud? The name echoed back to him, overlapping with memories of the assassin, cheeks flushed and eyes burning. A few stray hairs that he had brushed back with his fingertips, then coming to rest of the man’s cheek. Daud, the name his mouth had shaped in the heated moments pressed between sheets. Martin must have said it aloud as the man hummed in confirmation.

“He’s gone now.”

Of course, he thought, as the memories faded.

“I can’t-why can’t I see?” His hands, alien and clumsy, raked across his face. Fingers met damp bandages. Drums beat through his chest as the world spun; waves of nausea and panic washing through him.

“You were branded, Martin. Branded a heretic.” The voice was thin, distant, slipping between his fingers as he fought to anchor himself. Still, the waves beat against him, pulling him down. “You lost one eye, and, well, the other isn’t looking good either.”

He sank further until the waves swallowed him; leaving him alone in the dark. In the void.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the wonderful comments, bookmarks, and kudos! And, thank you for reading!

_10th Day, Month of Ice, 1837._

The Whalers were diminishing by the day. They left under the cloak of night; leaving their masks on their bunks or hanging on the hooks in the wash. Thomas was plagued by blank glass eyes everywhere he went.

Before, they had ran with the gift of the Outsider, blinking from rooftops, shattering the geometry of reality with the clench of a fist. Whatever they were before was forgotten. Blood no longer beat through their veins; it was the thrill of power that fuelled them. Dizzying, gleeful power.

They had killed the Empress and brought the Empire to its knees. No one else could have done what they did. They revelled in it. Fed from the chaos like blood-thirsty plague rats. Toasted their elixirs in the Lord Regent’s name and cleaned their boots with his posters.

Business had been good. The Lord Regent gave them name after name; men and women who had spoken against his reign, those who met in the dark and hushed whispers of conspiracy. Daud wet his blade in the Regent’s name time and time again. Death was a blight on the city of Dunwall and Daud stood in the epicentre.

And when Daud left, he punched an aching hole in the world he turned his back on.

Thomas was left to hold the fragments together; bloodied hands grasping at shards, feeling the sting of the ones he couldn’t save. He held the discarded whaling mask, the eyeglasses still fogged with warm condensation, and thought of the man who might have looked back at him. Another name struck from his list. Another face to watch for in the swarms of weepers. He tossed the mask out the window and didn’t wait to hear it hit the still waters below.

* * *

Reality had become overwhelming. The smallest of noises were deafening, every scent turned his stomach, every touch hurt. Martin flinched at the sounds of boots beating against floorboards, jumped as a hand touched his shoulder. It all seemed so sudden, as if thrown at him through a perpetual fog. The constant attacks were exhausting; yet his body craved the stimulation his eyes once brought him. He would chase the slightest shadow that crossed his peripheral, aching for it to happen again, to appease this unsatiable appetite. But it was rare. And when sleep came, it was sudden and crashed over him all at once.

He dreamt of colour. The setting sun lighting the sky aflame. The mellow misted blues of a still lake. The stormy grey clouds clinging to a mountain. And when he woke, he yearned for the memory, but was met with nauseating nothingness.

Finding ways to pass time was difficult. He wasn’t at his most mobile, with his ribs still tender as they healed, but he tried to push himself to pace around the room. His lack of vision had put him off exploring for a while, but gradually his curiosity got the better of him, and his feet wandered.

It was bigger than he had imagined, large and empty save for a cluster of desks in the far corner. Martin had banged into a bookcase once or twice, cursing the furniture for silently existing. Smooth sheets of paper, marked with scrawled handwriting, littered the desks. Daud’s? Or reports from his men? He thought of the things he could discover about the man from his belongings, the information gathered in notes and letters, the impression of the man in the slant of his cursive.

Sometimes, Martin would catch the scent of him in the wind, and he was reminded that he slept in the heart of the assassin’s empire. He felt his absence everywhere; from the empty desks, to the quiet shuffling of distant footsteps. A reminder that Daud was gone, and that he was alone with his pain.

Around him, the sea air beat against the hollow city, blown out windows and fractured rooftops sang with despair. There was movement below and around him, bodies shifting from room to room, voices drifting in the breeze, and he felt haunted. A conversation passed by him, muted by closed doors, and he felt like a ghost.

The Whalers avoided him. The only one that came was Thomas. He cleaned Martin’s wounds, replaced bandages, and brought him all the food he could find.

“I’m sorry, it’s not much. The store has been emptier, lately.” Thomas trudged in, bringing with him the fresh scent of stagnant water and river krusts.

Martin accepted the apple and small loaf of stale bread regardless. “Green or red?” He asked.

“Green.” Thomas said, settling on the floor opposite him.

“What happened?” He asked between idle bites.

“To the store? Nothing, we’re just short of coin at the moment.”

“No, to this place.” Martin gestured to the room around them. He may have been blind, but he could sense the size of it. And for it to stand empty seemed wrong. “Has it always been so quiet?”

Thomas picked at his bread. Martin thought of ghosts and wondered if Thomas was haunted too. “No. Not until now. Does it bother you?”

Yes. “Your men, they’re uncomfortable having an Overseer amongst them. I can understand that.”

“You’re not an Overseer anymore, Martin.” Thomas said it softly, but the words still stung.

Martin laughed, a humourless, strained sound which he quickly buried with another bite of his apple. A moment of uncomfortable silence passed and neither of them dared squirm.

Daud must have respected his blunt honesty. It would have been so _Daud_ to surround himself with straight-talking, level-headed men. Men whose hands were steady, voices strong and clear. Thomas unravelled before him, layers of rigid responsibility and unwavering loyalty peeling away; Martin wondered what lay beneath. What sort of man was Thomas, really? A fool or a stronger man than himself, Martin thought, to carry the burden of another man’s empire.

“Tell me about the store. What’s happening with the coin?” Martin probed.

Thomas must have decided he could be trusted, as he told him everything. He spoke of the empire Daud had built himself, far more impressive than the Abbey had given him credit for. He had men crawling all over the city, watching from rooftops, listening through open windows. Men that slipped into shadow and moved in the night. Dangerous men; all bonded to him through black magic.

“His thoughts became ours; if he wanted something done, we would do it. Without question, without thought. Not mindless, but…persuaded.” Thomas struggled to find the words to describe his meaning, but Martin found it in the softness of his voice. There was a great devotion to Daud there. “It felt, I guess, like dancing. You know the steps, you follow the beat, even if you do not know the song. We were all connected by this, we danced to his beat.”

Thomas sighed, the sound merging with the creaks of the old building around them. “And now, everything is quiet and my brothers are strangers. I crave the song but I can’t remember the melody. Everything feels empty and I’m alone.”

Martin sat quiet for a moment, mulling over Thomas’s words. He knew something of loneliness. He felt the weight of it with such a sinking familiarity; thoughts of his brothers in the Abbey, his family in Morley, echoed in his mind. He pinched the bandaged stub of his right index finger and focussed on the pain; and the thoughts were drowned from his mind. Martin leaned forward, angling himself in Thomas’s direction. “You’re not alone.”

“I might as well be,” Thomas snapped, his voice twisted with more indignation that Martin had heard from him before. “There are less and less of us every day. Soon it’ll just be me in this crumbling building.” His voice trailed off, settling amongst the dust and ruin.

“That won’t happen.” Martin decided. “But you’ll need to get the stores filled again. Find more work; give the men something to focus on.”

“The work is drying up.” Thomas said quietly. “The Whalers aren’t what they used to be. We’re without a leader. Powerless. Our last two jobs failed, with one dead and the other in Coldridge. Now most of our contacts won’t even acknowledge us.”

A slow smile curved Martin’s lips, a plan forming in his mind. He had worked with less. “In Dunwall, there is always a profit to be made.”

* * *

Dunwall was a city of endless discoveries, with mysteries unravelling in every corner, every alley. As an Overseer, Martin had revelled in his role in the community. The streets were a canvas and Martin painted the city to be his own through his words. He preached; though, as one of the rare Overseers to join as an adult, he had a more relaxed attitude to the role, and he brought worldly stories to his life before to his congregation. He would sit on the edge of the altar, boots crossed idly, as he painted his tales with his hands. There was a serenity to him, in those moments, a glittering of content in his blue eyes. A smile dancing on his lips.

If he were to talk of the third stricture, he’d tell them falsehoods of the marks of his own hands, and told how each mark showed a thread of the greater tapestry of man. He’d listen to their own stories, eyes bright and earnest, words of guidance and encouragement slipping amongst their tales.

It had its uses; he saw in their eyes a devotion, a loyalty, a trust. They confided in him. White lies, gossip, and filthy little secrets. And occasionally, he’d find a jewel amongst treachery. Something worth knowing. He built an armoury from such jewels of information, a violent ammunition of blackmail and threats, masked by a warm smile and icy blue eyes.

Dunwall was rife with opportunity, it spilled from its marble streets and splashed against towering rooftops; all he had to do was squeeze.

It was easy enough. All it took was a few kind words and an endearing story from his past, with just the enough edge to make it believable, bringing himself to their level. And when they opened up, it was a beautiful thing.

It was seeing the people of Dunwall for what they were; people. Chasing base desires and small pleasures, fighting to feed their families, finding ways to fill the void in their soul. Martin told them they were a part of something greater, each a star in the infinite cosmos, they only had to find their place.

Once, he had thought himself a damn good liar, but now he saw something else buried in those memories. As he lay on his filthy mattress, deep in the heart of the Flooded District, he thought of the cosmos. The unknowable, infinite beyond. His left hand reached up to the sky and he imagined twirling the stars around his fingers. Were the stars out tonight? Was he bathing in the silver dust of the moon?

He couldn’t tell if it was night at all; and he felt a fool then. His hand came to rest on his bruised chest; finding the slow beat of his heart buried there.

The stars were still there, he had to remind himself, the cosmos were still above him. Somewhere.

A muffled creak of the floorboards brought him back to the ruined office and Martin realised he was being watched. He scrambled to sit upright, wincing as his ribs seared with pain, and felt around for something to defend himself with. Coming up empty, he raised his fists, and snarled into the empty air. “Who’s there?”

A crunch of broken glass and a quiet whoosh of air carrying with it the scent of rose petals, the sticky sweetness of pollen, and the fresh breath of the ocean. Martin tensed.

“Who are you?” He demanded, finding his feet and pulling himself upright. It had been too long since he had fought with his fists, but he quickly positioned himself on the balls of his feet and put his trust in his reflexes. “I’m not in the mood for games.”

Footsteps circled him, slow and deliberate. He followed them, pointing himself in the direction of the sound. “So the stories are true.” A woman, her voice hard.

“And?”

A laugh came from behind him, cold and short, raising the hairs on the back of his neck. “And my curiosity is sated.”

Martin waited, his fists raised and his heart pounding, but there was nothing but silence. Seconds turned to minutes, and only then he was sure that he was alone.

He sank to his knees, knotting his hair between his fingers, doubt shadowing his thoughts. Had there really been anyone here? Could he trust his own mind? The creaks of the old building could deceive him, his dreams were loud with voices of the past.

The Strictures may have guided him once; his mind turning with thoughts of the errant mind or the restless hands, but now his thoughts were divided and his hands always idle. _Heretic_.

His fingers traced the tip of the brand. The wound was healing but still raw; blood wet his skin. It cut through his hairline, the three prongs splitting violently across his face, the first two curving into his cheekbone, the last cut deep into his brow and split his empty eyelids. He raked blunt nails along the jagged lines; the pain welled, his lip trembled, but he pushed harder. Blood trailed down his face, across his lips, dripping into the mattress below.

 _Heretic_. It was what he deserved.


	3. Chapter 3

_11 th Day, Month of Ice, 1837_

Martin awoke to the smashing of glass and the slurred fury of a Whaler’s voice. He wrenched himself from the tangle of his dreams and held on to the noise. Bottles were being thrown at the walls, each one hurled with a quivering hand and accompanied by a series of curses in Daud’s honour. Martin felt his own anger, buried so deep in his chest that he’d almost forgotten it, growing with each bottle destroyed. He rose to his feet and approached the source of the destruction; shards of glass cutting into his bare feet as he walked.

“ _Fuck_ ,” The Whaler cursed again, jumping at the appearance of the ex-Overseer at his side. “I forgot you were here.”

Martin was met with the overbearing stench of alcohol. His foot connected with a bottle, still intact, he picked it up and weighed it in his hands. “Does it help?”

“Oh, absolutely.”

Martin nodded, took a breath, and then hurled the bottle in the same direction as the others. It connected with the corner of a desk and shards ricocheted back into the room.

“ _Yes_!” The Whaler laughed, passing him another bottle. “Get it out.”

Martin tossed the bottle from one hand to the other, choosing his sins. The bottle smashed against an empty window frame. “For leaving me for dead.”

The Whaler threw another. “For leaving all of us.”

When the supply of bottles had run dry, the laughter, one drunken and the other painfully sober, lost its energy and slowed to an easy buzz. The Whaler introduced himself as Marco, a Master assassin who had been running with Daud for five years. He shared a bottle of Old Dunwall with Martin, stolen from the City Watch store along the canal, and they drank together surrounded in a twinkling sea of shattered illusions. He doesn’t remember talking much, but then after a half a bottle of whiskey, he doesn’t remember much at all. The night passed in a blur of sharp edges smoothed over by a tide of oak-smoked liquor.

* * *

Morning came, illuminating the room in vibrant colour, the sun reflecting from the shards of bottles, deep greens and ambers dancing across the barren walls. Martin saw little of it, only the occasional flicker of light across his peripheral. He leaned against the wall, his knees tucked to his chest, listening to the sound of the Whalers waking to do their morning duties, to life unravelling into the slow pace of day.

His head ached, his throat dry. His eyes burned. He waited, counting his breaths and Marco’s gentle snores, until the first footfalls approached. And then they slowed, becoming almost silent, and the telling sound of a blade being drawn.

Thomas entered the room, nudging the door open with practiced silence, boots careful not to disturb a single shard of glass. His eyes grazed over the debris of the previous nights’ antics; it must have been worse than Martin thought, enough to shake the Whaler into being cautious.

“It’s alright, Thomas.” Martin called out, his voice hoarse. “Just a drunken night that got out of hand.”

The blade returned to his belt as Thomas sighed. “Is that what you are now? A drunk?” There was an edge to his voice that Martin couldn’t decipher. Was he disappointed in him? Angry?

“I’ll take that. It’s better than being a shade above a Weeper.” Martin commented dryly. Thomas didn’t even know him; who gave him the right to be disappointed? The right to _care_? Martin resented that; caged himself against it. He pressed his head against the cracked plaster and thought only of the throbbing pain that beat into his skull.

Thomas made his way to the centre of the room where Marco slept and kicked at the man’s boots. Marco woke with a start, thrashing out against his attacker, but Thomas ignored him and continued to the far corner of the room.

“Get this mess cleaned up.” Thomas ordered as he settled amongst the desks and bookcases of the office. “We have work to do.”

“Work?” Marco scrambled to his feet, brushing stray shards from his clothes. Thomas didn’t answer, and after a long pause Marco trudged out of the room.

All was quiet for a while, the only sound being the scratching of pen against paper and the shuffling of letters and documents. There was an air to it that felt familiar, as if the building had been lying dormant and slowly awaking, repeating the steps that came naturally. Was he an intruder here? It felt so intimate that each crinkle of paper, every word scrawled by Thomas’s hand, left a chill on his skin. It was easy to imagine Daud in Thomas’s place; his steady hands writing, his patient eyes reading, the slow rise and fall of his chest as he breathed.

It would be easy to pretend. But Martin’s chest ached and his eyes stung, and the dream was lost. He ran his hands over his face, dried blood flaking away under his touch, fingers taking note of the swelling that masked him. The brand that still felt hot.

A few Whalers entered the room and Martin was suddenly aware of how he must have looked to them. Like a corpse, he thought darkly, left to rot amongst the rubble. They chatted as they cleaned, teasing each other as brothers do, their words light and distracting as the glass was swept away and a broken door removed. Someone brought out a mop and dragged water across the floorboards. Another talked with Thomas, their voices blurred and soft.

Martin found comfort in the sounds and eventually fell asleep.

* * *

The faces pinned to the board stared back at him, their eyes mocking. Thomas couldn’t look away. His mind ticked with routes, plans, and strategies, but amongst them all a small voice whispered doubt. _You aren’t him_ , the voice told him, _you will never lead them as he did_. From the rooftops of the Distillery District, to the alleys of Drapers Ward, he scanned for advantages and choke points in his mind’s eye. But the chill of eyes was upon him. A weight pressing down on his shoulders.

Yuri was dead and Rickard had been captured; how many men would he lose on this next job? Who would he be sending to their deaths?

“Thomas, Rulfio has returned .” Zachary emerged at his side, the glass eyes of his mask flaring with the morning sun.

“Thank you, Zachary. Send him in.” Thomas nodded. Moments passed like seconds, and Thomas hadn’t moved. When Rulfio joined him, bringing the smell of the distillery and rats, he turned to greet the Whaler.

“No Billie?” Rulfio asked and Thomas shook his head.

It had only been two weeks since Rulfio had departed for his reconnaissance mission; Thomas could scarcely believe how much had changed in that time. Everything was coming undone, he could only hold so many strands, but he still mourned the ones that slipped through his fingers. 

“Billie left shortly after Daud.”

Rulfio’s shoulders dropped slightly but he didn’t probe further. He was disappointed, Thomas guessed. Well, so was he. It was easy to make a connection there, but Thomas couldn’t guess at Billie’s intentions. Hers had been the first mask he had found, discarded like trash in the gutters, her red coat slick with river mud. Billie had always been ambitious; she made it no secret that she wanted to lead them one day. It had been surprising to learn she had left them, too.

“The Distillery District is a mess.” Rulfio continued, sorting through his satchel to fish out a folded square of paper. His gloves left dark smudges on the water-stained paper as he passed it to Thomas. “City Watch are fighting with the Bottle Street in the alleys, spilling into the main street. It looks as if the City Watch is winning.” 

Thomas nodded, dissecting the map Rulfio had marked in scratches of ink. The Bottle Street territory had grown in recent times, a prize won from their war with the Hatters, but a victory in the streets was always short-lived. “Interesting. Slackjaw is losing his touch. Perhaps their fight with the Hatters weakened them.” Thomas guessed.

“The inner circle is crumbling. Their second has disappeared; Slackjaw has a price for anyone who has any information. A thousand coin.” Rulfio crossed his arms across his chest, leaning against a desk. Casual, easy; Daud would never have allowed it. Rulfio knew this.

It was coin they desperately needed. Their position was not a secure one. The city was falling apart around them, the chaos chipping away at them bit by bit. A thousand coin meant food in the store. It meant elixirs.

“Do we have any information?”

“A guess.” Rulfio shrugged, picking up a lump of Tyvian ore that had been serving as a paperweight, tossing it between his hands. “I overheard the Watch discussing experiments at Dr Galvani’s. Human experiments.”

There was an arrogance to Rulfio’s voice. Thomas couldn’t help but feel as if there was a test there, at the heart of it. And to think these men were his brothers. He took a breath to smooth over the knots forming in his mind. “And?”

“And the witch. Granny Rags. We spotted her in the area. She could be involved.” Rulfio said, forming the name with caution. He set the ore down and turned to the large map of the Distillery District spread across the desk, a long finger circling a narrow alley near the docks.

It shouldn’t have surprised Thomas; if there was ever anything rotten festering in this city, the witch would be at the centre. But a kernel of dread burrowed deep in his gut. “Daud always said never to cross the witch; if she’s implicated, we’ll have to tread carefully.”

Together they marked the master map with the points of interest from Rulfio’s hand drawn one, and for a while they discussed the finer details, the areas for caches, abandoned apartments they could utilise, routes they were still able to follow without the power of transversal at their disposal. It was easier to focus on these smaller problems than to step back and look at the larger picture. Of a city falling to ruin, a gang on the edge of survival; a witch cultivating chaos.

Hours pass, filled with discussions of tactics and assigning roles to his men, and Thomas found himself feeling more at ease as the sun slid across the sky. The others understand; there is empathy in their tone, an understanding that someone had to step up. Someone had to guide them.

Martin stirred from his sleep, muffled grumbles of pain and confusion dispersing the Whalers who lingered nearby. They weren’t quite sure of what to make of him yet. Word had travelled fast, the day Thomas carried him back to their base, and the initial excitement of the confirmation that Daud did indeed have a lover soon died. The bloodied uniform of an Overseer had silenced them. And when Daud left; they all but forgot about the wounded man he had turned his back on. Thomas was the only one who dared to approach him.

He did so now, as the others stood back and pretended they weren’t watching.

“You’re awake.” Thomas said, more so that Martin could identify him than anything. He had learned that early on.

“No.” Martin mumbled into his knees.

Thomas kneeled beside him, pulling his hands into his own. “Will you stand?”

Martin’s head snapped up at him and Thomas almost gasped. His face was still hard to look at. The one empty eye socket, a haunting red abyss of swollen flesh and oozing with pus. The brand that struggled to heal, jagged and violent against his pale skin. A bloodshot, milky, unseeing eye, lame to Thomas and the Whalers that looked upon him. He was swollen, red, and still bloody. Thomas fought the urge to look away.

“Why?” He said, his voice dripping with poison.

“Just walk with me.” Thomas tugged on his hands, gently, until Martin allowed himself to be coaxed. He stood clumsily but soon grounded himself, feet planted firmly. Thomas looped his arm with his own and guided him towards the mezzanine.

“Be careful, there’s a staircase here.” Thomas warned him, and Martin shot him a pained look. It was remarkable to consider that this man once gave sermons and took confessions, Thomas thought. He seemed to have very little patience. But then, all things considered, Thomas couldn’t be sure he would act any differently if he were in his place.

The climb to the top was slow and laborious, and Thomas pretended not to notice Martin stumble once or twice. His grip would tighten on him until he was stable again and then they carried on. The worst of it was the silence. There were six others in that room, and not one dared move and give themselves away. They were either incredibly sharp assassins, or sharks who watched the struggle with hunger, perhaps a mix of both.

When they reached the bed, Martin found the frame with his foot, then turned to Thomas with his lips pressed into a firm line. “You’re telling me I’ve been sleeping on that damned mattress whilst there was a perfectly good bed up here the whole time?”

“I guess you finally earned it,” Thomas laughed, clapping Martin on the shoulder. It felt good to laugh, the tension unwound from him, like he could finally breathe. The room below softened, too, and the hum of a life resumed below. “Sit, I’ll get you something to eat.”

Martin did as he was told, hands smoothing over the worn sheets and flat pillows, committing each crease and tear to memory. Thomas left him like that, taking the steps down in twos. He sent Bertram to make coffee and to find something edible, Zachary to fill a bucket with clean water and soap, whilst he resumed his work. Zachary was the first to return, setting the bucket on the desk before Thomas with such force the water slopped over the rim and wet the report he was working on.

“I don’t see why you bother.” Zachary crossed his arms over his chest, his shoulders tense, his voice hard. “Just let the zealot die.”

“He is important to Daud, whether we like it or not. That makes him one of us.”

“You’re forgetting that Daud left him, too.” Zachary growled before leaving to fill his next post.

There was an anger behind his words that Thomas dreaded uncovering the meaning behind. Were there others who shared Zachary’s sentiment? How long until they all resented Martin? It wasn’t fair to hate him blindly when none of them knew a thing about him save for two facts: he was an Overseer and he meant something to Daud. And Thomas held a third to himself; he knew that Martin had been part of a conspiracy against the Regency. For that, he was valuable.

He carried the bucket of water to Martin’s bedside, leaving it to drip suds into the water stained wood, a rag bobbing amongst the bubbles. “Here, you could do with a wash. You’re looking rougher than usual.”

“Am I? I guess I’ll have to take your word for it.” Martin’s tongue was barbed with spite. He fished the rag from the water, wringing it first, then pulled it to his face. He cleaned the blood from his skin with no thought for his wound. The delicate skin cracked and fresh blood began to bud.

“Let me.” Thomas eased it from his grip, settling on the mattress beside him. He met little resistance; Martin’s hands fell to his lap, his thumb running over the back of his hand in idle circles.

Thomas was gentle, familiar with the rhythm of tending to his brothers between assignments, his hands were firm but patient. There was a calmness to him that was sobering in a profession as theirs, something that often landed him as being overlooked or underestimated, but there was a sharpness to his eyes that spoke of a bright mind. Little got passed him; something that Daud had noticed and nurtured.

He dabbed at the ex-Overseer’s face, being careful not to disturb his brand, gently working the blood from his skin in circular motions. Martin relaxed into his touch, leaning into him, his face relaxing.

“I’m sorry about the noise. Things will get busier now that we’re operating again; if it’s too much, I can find another room for you.”

Martin shook his head, a frown pulling at the corners of his lips. “No, I like the noise. Makes me feel less alone. I don’t think I can take the silence any longer.”

Thomas brushed the hair back from Martin’s face and wiped the rag over his brow once more, then returned it to the bucket. “No more quiet, got it. Is there anything else I can do?”

The ex-Overseer thought for a moment, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth, until Thomas thought that he wouldn’t respond at all. When Martin turned to him, his one clouded eye grazed over his face in a way that sent shivers down his spine. “Give me something to do, _please_.”

He nodded, then cursed himself for forgetting Martin couldn’t see it, and instead reached out to touch Martin’s knee. Then he stood and made his way back downstairs, to the stiff shoulders of his Whalers, to the board of blank faces. As much as he tried, the routes were unfinished and the reports abandoned, his mind racing with thoughts of the Abbey and their golden masks. He thought of purpose and blades sliding across throats, the song of the arcane bond humming in the distance, the quiet gurgling of a man choking on his own blood. He had encountered many of the loathsome Overseers, but now he wondered if he had ever passed by Martin, hidden under the gilded grins and heavy blue uniforms.

When Bertram arrived, he was a half hour too late as Martin had slipped unconscious again, and the tray was left on the chest at the foot of the bed. Steaming coffee turned cold and the dark bread stiffened in the breeze. It was late in the day when Thomas replaced the coffee with a bottle of fig wine, leaving an audiograph player and all the music cards he could find beside the tray. The building soaked in a glow of orange and red when he retired, lighting the room in a blaze of soothing colour.

* * *

It was when the room cooled to the deepest of blues, lit only by a slither of moonlight peaking amongst dark brooding clouds, Martin felt hands upon him. Warm, slow, and welcome. A hand trailed down his side, a gentle caress that left goose bumps in its path, teasing past the loose fabric of his shirt.

“Daud.” Martin breathed, and the assassin’s rough hush twisted his lips into a smile. The leather of his gloves grazing over his chest, careful over the yellowed bruises and tight bandages, quickly unfastening the buttons of his shirt to expose him to the cool air of night. A weight settled over his hips as Daud straddled him, hands pulling his own above his head, pinning him against the mattress.

Martin rolled his hips, seeking friction against his growing erection, and Daud chuckled softly as he leaned in to kiss him. He tasted of tobacco and whiskey and Martin kissed him back hungrily, teeth knocking against teeth, tongues warring for control. When they broke for breath, Daud arched above him, a hand abandoning his wrist to curl around his throat. His face was illuminated by the silver moonlight, his eyes dark and greedy.

“Tell me who you belong to.” He said, his voice a challenge, eyes drinking in his reactions.

Martin gritted his teeth; Daud stroked his jaw, teasing. He pulled his gloves off with his teeth, and something hot and rising chokes the breath from his lungs. Martin can’t hide his delight as Daud brushes a thumb over a nipple, teasing it until soft little moans escape his lips. A brow arches and Martin remembers his demand; he presses his lips together and set his jaw with stubbornness.

Daud’s grip on his throat tightened. “The Abbey?”

A grin split across Martin’s face as his back arches, writhing beneath him in perfect symmetry, and the hand on his chest slinks further south. “No.”

“No.” Daud agreed, raking his eyes over his body, tracing the shape of his hips with his fingers. His eyes flick up to meet Martin’s. “Tell me who you belong to.”

“By the Void, just touch me.” His voice is slick with want, without a drop of shame. He held Daud’s gaze, still bright with defiance, and Daud smiles down at him. The Overseers say he is a wolf to man; but they are wrong. There is certainly something particularly _savage_ about his smile, but Martin knows the man better. Wolves are feral pack animals that hunger for blood. Martin found him to be closer to a Pandyssian wild cat, slinking in the shadows, with sharp eyes and sharper claws. There was a calculated purpose to Daud - everything was considered, nothing forgotten.

Daud leaned down, his breath hot against his skin. “Touch _yourself_.”

His voice was a quiet growl that sent a rush of heat through him. Daud kissed his neck, slowly, teeth grazing against skin. Martin’s hand slipped to his cock as Daud teased his trousers from him, grey eyes gleaming in the dark.

The weight of the other man dissipated, turning to fog, and Martin stroked himself whilst chasing the image in the dark. When he came, it was hot and hard, sucking the wind from his lungs. Cheeks flushed, bottom lip drawn between teeth, white hot pleasure coursing through him and painting his hand and thighs. He lay in the void of his own making, aching and bare, surrounded by the scent of his lover captured in damp sheets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Fanart:** [Daud & Martin](https://ivahian.tumblr.com/post/644056389635981312/a-scream-pulled-him-back-to-the-rooftop-the)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the lovely comments and kudos! And, thank you for reading!

**Chapter Four**

_13 th Day, Month of Ice, 1837._

The city was getting worse. The thought crept into Thomas’ mind each time he emerged from the Flooded District. The buildings were scarred with Sokolov’s latest technology, cables snaking through the streets, the Lord Regent’s banner rippling in the wind.

It felt strange to walk through the streets with his face bare. He felt uncomfortably exposed, his fingers itching at his side to pull his hood up. But it would do no good to hide. He blended in with the few others that wandered the streets, a collective exhaustion weeping from every shuffle of feet, backs hunched, shoulders squared defensively. Tired eyes searching for signs of the sickness in the faces of those they passed. Thomas wore their pain and found small pieces of himself in each of them.

Marco nodded at him from a little way ahead and then splintered from the street into a narrow alley running between an abandoned tobacco shop and an old hotel. There was a checkpoint further down the street, armed with five guards on a fixed rotation, two on either side of the wall of the light and one Officer that supervised from the booth. People were handing over their identification papers for inspection and then filing through the wall of light, one at time.

Thomas paused at a noticeboard, scanning through the posted names of the missing, a gloved finger reaching out to follow each line. There were too many children, he thought, too many lost. After a moment had passed, and when he was certain his movements appeared natural, he followed Marco down the alley.

It was narrow and branched off into opposite directions, passageways leading to back entrances of shops, once bustling with deliveries and staff lingering on breaks, now there were only rats. Thomas scaled a short wall and pulled himself onto a vent jutting out of the brickwork. As he climbed and tiptoed across vents and window ledges, it became easier, his eyes constantly searching for the next surface that could bear his weight, a foothold to get him higher, until he was perched on the rooftop overlooking the rivers of streets below. Marco waited for him, leaning against a chimney stack, arms folded across his chest.

“Took you long enough.” Marco chided playfully.

Thomas gave him a small shove as he passed him, a laugh captured in the breeze, then he leapt to the neighbouring roof with perfect grace. He felt at home on the slate tiles of the rooftops. The city stretched out far below him. Above, the sky was choked with the acrid fumes of the factories, mudding the sky into a foul smear of grey. It seeped into the cracks of buildings and eroded iron railings and steel balconies.

Along the vicious skyline was an apartment building, charred from a fire years ago, long picked clean of surviving valuables and left to ruin. Quinn waited for them in the outpost. She didn’t look up as they entered, her brown eyes focussed on her wristbow, nimble fingers tinkering and perfecting. They murmured their greetings, voices quiet to avoid disturbing the oppressive silence that called the blackened room home.

Thomas armed himself, filling a satchel with stun mines, sleep darts, and only a few bolts. He noticed Marco had selected mostly springrazors, a wolfish grin creeping onto his face. They prepared without a word spoken, changing from their civilian clothes into their signature leather coats and whaling masks, sharpened blades strapped to their belts, wristbows strapped and tightened. The stuffy filter of his mask felt like another piece of himself coming back to him, filling his lungs with rubber and chalk,. If he closed his eyes and clenched his gloved fist tightly, he could imagine pulling himself through the air, the song of that arcane bond carrying him forward.

“Ready?” Marco nudged him. Thomas opened his eyes, adjusting to the thick glass of the mask, and nodded once.

“City Watch rotation is in fifteen.” Quinn had settled into a crouch on the window ledge, a figure of ashen blue against the backdrop of the jagged city.

“Right.” Thomas straightened his wristbow and tugged at his left glove. His skin felt clammy and there was a twist of nerves in his stomach. “Quinn you’re on watch; Marco with me.”

It wasn’t necessary; they knew their roles, it had all been planned the day before. He trusted they had committed the route to memory. Thomas led through the opposite window, winding a path over vents and balconies until the Wrenhaven came into view and the buildings grew taller and grander. John Clavering Boulevard beckoned, but Thomas stopped.

He held up a hand behind him.

Below, the desperate scurry of rats disturbed the rubble. The swarm grew, moving in waves clambering over each other, spilling from the filth of the alley and onto the smooth paving of the boulevard.

“We don’t have time,” Marco hissed from behind. Thomas didn’t lower his hand. He watched as the rats surrounded a guard. The heavy stomping of his boots caught a few with tortured squeals, blood splattering on floor. But it was no use. There were too many of them. Teeth cut through leather, biting through skin, gnawing on bone. The shrieks bounced from the buildings, distorting until he sounded like a tortured creature of nightmares, twisted and gargling. There wasn’t much of a man left when the rats dispersed – hungry eyes searching for their next meal.

But that wasn’t what held Thomas up. Beyond the screams, the firing of bullets, the terror, was the faint lull of singing. Quiet, rasping, a voice like the scratching of fingernails against dried wood. “ _Dreary, dreary,_ ” she sang to the shadows, sending shivers down Thomas’s spine.

“Stay here.” He whispered, then crept forward.

There was a lower walkway that ran alongside the main boulevard, cutting through stone and carving beneath the stairs to the grand houses and shops. The rats seemed to sprout from the darkness beyond the steps. The song drifted from within. Thomas slid down a drainpipe, landing in an alley at the mouth of the warren, a subtle thud as his boots met the floor.

He wouldn’t go near, he’d keep his distance, but he had to know. _Never cross a witch_ , Daud had told them, though none had ever believed in such things. Witches seemed absurd, present only in the muddled teachings of Overseers, paired with warnings of heresy and accusations of black magic. They knew better. They _were_ better. But the fierceness of Daud’s gaze as he said it had held Thomas. Daud was no fool. Thomas could not be a fool, either.

Caution planted his feet; he crouched and squinted into the abyss.

Granny Rags looked like a creature of myth, made up of mottled fabric as if she’d pulled spiderwebs around her. Clothes that may have been rich and glamourous once were now bundled around hunched shoulders and rattling bones. Skeletal fingers, sheathed in tarnished rings, picked at the remains of a guard. Each bone she pulled from a mass of pungent flesh she admired like fine jewels, raising them to the light and absorbing the oozing bone marrow and strings of muscle with blind eyes. The best of them she placed in a bag that hung at her hip; blood dripping from its swollen fabric.

“My, my, what have we here?” She cooed with unblinking admiration. The bone dropped to the floor as her head turned in his direction. A wicked grin split her face, yellowed teeth catching the light. “Another gentlemen caller?”

There was no way she could see him. Her eyes were as misted as Martin’s, but Thomas couldn’t convince himself. There was something more to Granny Rags, something awful and black that seemed to suck the colour from the world and leave it a grisly grey. He felt trapped in her haunting stare, even as the shadows began to stir. As rats began to swarm.

She cackled as he backed away, the sound chasing him from the alley. Thomas pulled himself up the drainpipe to find Marco waiting where he’d left him. The other Whaler had his arms crossed with impatience.

“What?” Marco hissed.

“Granny Rags.” Thomas murmured as he caught his breath; his heart was hammering against his chest. He gestured at the alley, now overrun with the greasy bodies of rats.

“Outsider’s eyes, Rulfio was right.” Marco said, though his tone was flat. There was little that ever seemed to surprise him; a trait earned by a life made up of disastrous events. “What is she doing here?”

“I don’t know, but it’s not good.” Thomas dreaded to think; whatever it was, it was dangerous. Rulfio had warned them, that was true enough, but Rulfio was new to their group. He was easily swayed by the grim tales of the others, succumbing to hearsay and reporting gossip as fact. The mark he had drawn for Granny, on his sketch of a map, had been on the corner of Endoria Steet. Either she had strayed from her dwelling, or Rulfio was awful with maps. Still, the stories of Granny Rags had never been quite as violent as the scenes occurring below. There was a storm brewing there; something he made note to look into later.

Thomas looked up at the skyline to find Quinn watching from her position on the opposite line of rooftops. She tapped her wrist impatiently; they were running out of time.

They made haste; pressing on with their plan. The Office of Doctor Galvani was one of the finest residences that crusted the wide thoroughfare of John Clavering Boulevard; towering above the slums below, a solid front to hold back the tide of destitution. Once it had been a practice for high society, treating their ailments as long as gold lined his silken pockets. The plague had left its scar, but the cuts only went so deep. The windows were shuttered with metal, not boards of rotted wood like the almshouses or shops of the streets behind, though inside the wealth unfolded in plush red carpets and polished tiles. They slunk in through the balcony, as quiet as a summer breeze.

The City Watch were protecting Galvani’s whilst he travelled through rural Gristol. Rulfio had noted their rotation to be lined up with those guarding the boulevard outside; a rotation that was soon coming to the end of its cycle. It was prime time for missions such as these; when the Watch were at their weariest, heads dull with thoughts of their dinners and warms beds. 

A guard lingered at a painting hanging above a fireplace – and it was his undoing. Marco pulled him into a tight embrace, his blade running along his neck, then as the guard choked on his dying breath he was laid out on the hardwood floor. A pool quickly formed beneath him, ruining the fine carpet. There was another guard out in the hall; Thomas placed a stun mine at the threshold of the room then gestured for Marco to explore the only other door in the room.

The room must have been a smoking lounge, with plush sofas and deep armchairs laden with rich velvet pillows with golden thread trims, a roaring fire spitting from a wide hearth, crystal decanters and polished tumblers left on silver trays. Thomas pocketed a cigar as he passed, along with a few spare coins left on the centre table, his eyes grazing over the safe sitting in the corner of the room. His mind danced with thoughts of what Galvani had stowed away in there. Whatever it was would serve them well, better than it would for a man who already had too much. Thomas’s gloved hands set the clock on the mantlepiece ticking, then followed Marco.

When they emerged on the other side of the tunnel-like series of rooms that ran along the side of the building, fit only for service and most likely unseen by the man of the house, the guard was already unconscious on the floor. The thick carpet smothered the sounds of their boots as they climbed the stairs, pausing only when they heard voices from the floor above.

“Heard what happened at Coldridge?” A strident voice belonging to a guard echoed down to them. Thomas crouched low, with Marco reluctantly following suit, and waited for the guards to disperse.

“Not with this nonsense again.” The second Watch responded, his voice weary with resignation.

“No, no, this isn’t nonsense. My cousin’s fella was there; said it was the strangest thing. Guards waking up in weird places and no idea how they got there. One was even locked in a cell, took them twenty minutes to get him out.”

The other guard snorted. “How’s your cousin doing then?”

“Oh, blow off, I’m not talking to you about her again.”

Thomas ducked low, almost crawling over the last few steps. The two City Watchmen had split apart from each other, one kicking at a loose panel, the other stopping to examine a trinket cupboard. Marco took one whilst Thomas had the other, cutting their necks from behind in perfect synchronisation, their bodies thumping against the floor one after the other.

Another set of glass doors led to the doctor’s laboratory; and though the glass was warped and rippled, he could see the shadow of a man pacing from within. He sent Marco to check the door down a narrow landing to their right, whilst he followed the hallway around to the left. It led to a corridor divided up into rooms, cluttered with shelves lined with boxes, tabled littered with discarded equipment and tools. A red glow emanated from bare bulbs, giving the room a visceral and tense atmosphere. He passed a basin ringed with grime and filth, and a bath stained a grisly red. Perhaps the doctors work wasn’t so distant from their own; collecting bodies, staining hands, wearing down the edges that made up a man until he became stone. The smell was awful, even through his filtered mask, it was layered with sulphur, rot, and the sting of sterilising chemicals.

The door at the end was ajar; he nudged it open with the tip of his boot.

“So, what do you think?” A gruff voice came from within. Thomas peered through the gap he’d created, careful to stay in the shadows. The lab had a long table running through the centre, a cityscape made entirely of bottles and towering apparatus, rat foetuses swirling in preserving fluids and whale oil singing from vessels, glass dulled by dust under the cold glow of lights suspended from the ceiling. A corpse had been spread across the centre of it all, and two City Watch Officers prodded at him with stone faces.

“I think he’s dead.” The other officer replied, his voice more nasal than the other. He had his arms crossed over his chest, a face hardened by the sight of countless corpses, mouth a tight line that told of his familiarity with situations such as these. Bodies appearing in noble houses with no questions asked. It must have earned him the blue and red coat; the uniform of a man who knew the value of silence.

“I know that. I mean, do we have suspects?” The first man pressed on. He was younger, his own coat cleaner, the colours still vibrant and fabric stiff.

“Suspects? We’re not going to waste our time solving who killed him.” The experience officer scoffed, turning from the corpse to stare pointedly at a diagram of a whale. “Personally, I’d buy who did it a drink.”

Thomas took the opportunity to step into the room, crouching low behind the table and shimmying between stools until he was certain he was hidden. He lingered between chair legs and tangles of dust, eyes focussed on their boots. Pulling a sleep dart from his satchel, he readied his wristbow.

“But what are you gonna put on your report?” The young officer continued; obviously not taking the hint the older man had been throwing at him. He wasn’t going to last on the Watch; his heart was in the wrong place. Men like that were ground down quickly or risked breaking.

“I’m going to say Galvani is gone and we found one of Slackjaw’s men inside, all dead and bloody, and that you are a stinkin’ idiot.” The older officer laughed at his own joke then strutted from the room, leaving the doors open behind him. Perfect. Thomas took his window of opportunity without hesitation; releasing the bolt with a thrilling _woosh_ , and it embedded in the young officer’s ankle. He didn’t have time to register what was happening before he slumped to the floor, heavy limbed and eyes rolled to the back of his head.

Thomas slunk from out of his hiding place, straightening up. The body of the table was Slackjaw’s missing man; dressed in the signature bowtie and waistcoat. Whatever had killed him had done so quickly, cementing the expression of twisted horror on his face, the fear still captured in his sunken eyes. There was an audiograph card at his side, Thomas slipped it into his satchel.

The soft click of the glass doors opening had Thomas draw his blade; when Marco stepped inside with fresh blood on his gloves. “Have we got what we came for?”

He nodded, lowering his blade. He had a feeling Slackjaw would be difficult to work with, despite his reputation as man of integrity. Their previous dealings with the Bottle Street had been…strained, to say the least. For proof, he cut a ringed finger from the corpses hand, then wrapped the cold stiff thing in bandages. As they descended the steps from the third floor, Marco told him of the note he had found in the Doctor’s bedroom that told of a date important to Galvani.

“He can’t be that stupid.” Thomas had chuckled; but apparently the wealthy Doctor really was that stupid. The safe clicked open, the mechanisms still whirring as Thomas picked up the two gold ingots. With his satchel heavy and the Offices silent, they slipped out the way they had came.

Quinn met them back at the burned out apartment later than they had expected. The sun had almost set, streaking the sky with ribbons of reds and oranges, the mist rolling in from the river. She pulled off her mask as she entered, pulling her golden hair from its brain.

“You missed quite the show.” She told them, sinking on to the filthy mattress beside Thomas.

Thomas shot her a quizzical look and she sighed, leaning against him, and he wrapped an arm around her shoulders instinctively. “Oh?”

“A blood bath, really.” She yawned. “Granny and her rats stormed Galvani’s just as you left; the screams coming from inside were nothing short of inspired.”

Marco snorted. “You’re disturbed, Quinn.”

A trace of a smile teased at the corners of her mouth, but her eyes were hard as she met Thomas’s gaze. “She was after something in there.”

“Somehow I doubt she was there for the same reasons as us. I can’t imagine her bartering with Slackjaw for coin.” Thomas said absently.

He wound a curl of Quinn’s hair around his fingers, enjoying the weight of her body against his, the sweet scent of her. She stayed still against him, her breathing gentle and even, likely enjoying the attention. There was no romance to it, he thought of her as a sister, and she of him as a brother. That didn’t mean pairings were uncommon amongst them; but each knew that the life of an assassin was a fleeting one, attachments were a risk that few could afford. But they found comfort in touches and strength in embraces.

“Do we even want to know?” Marco asked, lifting his head from the note he had been writing. A quick summary of what they had done, lists of details they would need to remember for their reports. His brow was still furrowed with lingering concentration, but there was no concern there. To him, Granny Rags was just an old woman with a strange hobby.

“Yes.” Thomas decided. “Leave no loose ends.”

He rose from the mattress and readied himself to leave; noting the low burn of the sun beyond the cracked windows. He found the streets to be near empty. A few rats scurried from alley to alley, chasing scraps caught in the breeze, but the swarm had gone. He followed the twists and turns of the city until the Dunwall Whiskey Distillery towered above him. The tall brick archway of the entrance had long been blockaded, a narrow door slunk in a dark corner, guarded by two thugs who eyed him wearily.

“The fuck do you want?” One stepped toward him, rolling his sleeves up to reveal arms thick with muscle and dark hair. It was meant to intimidate; and though the man stood a head above Thomas, he knew that if it really came to it, he could have the thug on his knees in the gutter within seconds.

“A word with Slackjaw.” Thomas raised his hands, displaying his empty belt and bare wrists.

“Now what would a creepy bastard like you want with Slackjaw?” The second thug, shorter than his friend, grunted in his direction.

Thomas stayed his ground. “For Slackjaw’s ears only.”

They looked at each other for a moment until the shorter man stepped aside, the decision made. “You try anything funny and we’ll gut you like a hagfish.”

“Understood.”

He passed through the distillery leaving a wake of hushed whispers and suspicious glares. Slackjaw’s office was at the heart of the factory; buried beneath stacks of oak barrels, amongst a fog of fragrant cigar smoke. The gang’s boss looked over him with languid eyes, drinking in the sight of his dark leathers and whaling mask.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” Slackjaw said, his lips curling with amusement as he tapped the ashes from his cigar. He leaned back in his chair, either too comfortable with an assassin in his space, or an excellent actor.

Thomas dropped the finger on to the desk in front of him, blood smearing across his ledger. Slackjaw’s smile disappeared. “Your missing man’s dead. We found him in Galvani’s place where the City Watch had sniffed him out. He had this with him.”

He held out the audiograph card. Slackjaw looked at him with hardened eyes, judging whether to take his word or reach for his pistol. He took the card. There was an audiograph player on the sideboard, nuzzled between bottles of whiskey and empty elixir vials. Slackjaw pressed the card into the slot and listened to the message, ring-encrusted fingers stroking at his beard as Crowley spoke from beyond the Void.

Crowley had uncovered a plot against the Bottle Street Gang and died on the cusp of its revelation. Thomas had a gnawing feeling that there was something deeply wrong with Dunwall’s underworld; perhaps it too was beginning to crumble away.

When the recording was over, Slackjaw turned to him. His expression was softer, with pain in his brown eyes and a frown tugging at his lips. “I owe you, friend. Crowley was a…good man. You have my thanks.”

Thomas tilted his head. “And your coin?”

“Yes, yes, you have that too.” Slackjaw said with a wave of his hand. “A thousand coins as promised. Though, I never thought one of Daud’s men would collect it.” 

He pulled a large pouch of coins from a safe tucked away beneath his desk, throwing it into Thomas’s waiting hand. Thomas didn’t count it; he knew Slackjaw was a man of his word.

“Now tell me, what _was_ Daud doing breaking Lizzie Stride out of Coldridge? That’s odd behaviour, even for men like you.” Slackjaw raised a thick brow, and Thomas felt the heat rush to his face as he struggled for an answer. It was an excellent question; one that he would like to know for himself. For now, he took comfort in the realisation that Daud was still in Dunwall, somewhere. And that knowledge lit a fire in his chest.

He said nothing in response and strode out of the distillery, his satchel heavy and his heart singing.

The others joined him at the sewers entrance, Marco brandishing a new bruise across his jaw and Quinn a wicked smile staining her lips. They told him about the old man they had saved from the brutish Bottle Street, with Quinn chiming in with details of the fight Marco had _almost_ lost, and it turned out the old man owned a black market shop. They had exchanged the ingots taken from Galvani’s safe for a healthy pouch of coin; and became a valuable ally of the shopkeeper, Griff. It was welcome news, a black market shop on their side meant healthy discounts and fair prices on their salvaged finds. Even if their work was few and far between, at least they could make use of the riches the Flooded District had to offer.

As they wound through the snaking sewers beneath Dunwall, Thomas told them of the interesting exchange he had had with Slackjaw. The new lead on Daud’s whereabouts had them excited, inspiring chatter of the quickest routes to Drapers Ward and who would be best suited for the job. Thomas fell quiet. He couldn’t help but wonder why Daud had slipped away to do this job alone; and why had he severed the arcane bond?

When they arrived at the Rudshore Gate, they were met with the smell of burning and dripping blood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is always welcome.
> 
> Chapter 5 will be here next week! It's gonna be a fun one!


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